


Psychostasia

by ComeChaos



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, Eating Disorders, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:52:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeChaos/pseuds/ComeChaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julian Bashir is a hard-working perfectionist with little experience of failure. When that changes, he turns to the only thing left that he can control: his own body.</p><p>WARNINGS: Depictions of eating disorders, including but not limited to excessive exercise, food restrictions, and distorted body perception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psychostasia

**Author's Note:**

> The story takes place during the first half of the fifth season, but the timeline is tweaked so that more time elapses during the period. This includes some minor chronological changes. Bashir's abduction also happens later than in the series (sometime after this story ends).

*¨*¨*

 

”Clear!”

The woman's torso arches upward. On the screen next to her, the little blocks flutter for another moment before landing gently at the bottom.

”Clear!”

Another jolt of electricity, but the blocks are resting. Life signs: zero. Not rising.

 

Doctor Julian Bashir has lost patients before, but as he looks up and meets the eyes of the Bajoran nurse, he knows that this case is different from the others. It is not because of the nature of the patient's injuries, nor it is because of anything he has done during these last three painstaking hours in the surgery. It is because it is this evening, after having made his final report on the woman's case, that Julian will finally transfer his research on the Teplan blight to Starfleet Medical.

 

When Julian first arrived among the Teplans, it was with the conviction that he would walk in, save the world, and smilingly collect his prize. Instead, he crashed and burned and brought the lives of several innocent people with him. They still visit him his sleep, taking the forms of Jadzia and Kira convulsing on the floor of the Promenade, staring at him with eyes full of surprise. For a while, he considered seeing Counselor Telnorri about it – after all, a doctor should set a good example to his patients – but then again, who would trust a doctor that needs to see a counselor? And – has he not, in fact, deserved this reminder of his own arrogance and the consequences of it?

 

After his return to Deep Space Nine, he devoted four months to pursue a cure for the blight. The dream of becoming a hero was gone, his only motive left to redeem himself. Four months, and the only thing he has accomplished is to further indulge in the possibilities of his own intellect while the Teplan people continue to die, because the desire for redemption is as selfish as all other desires. He surrenders the project and feels only disgust.

 

* * *

 

Three weeks later, a tall male humanoid with hard, slender limbs sits on the biobed in front of him. A younger female – presumably his daughter – is waiting silently in the background. The available data on their species is sparse in both Federation and Bajoran records, and it takes Julian much longer than usual to perform the examination.

 

By the time he is done, Jadzia is standing in the doorway, waiting to brief him on some study of hers that he has offered to help with. She smiles and nods at the father and daughter as they walk past her on their way out.

”She's beautiful,” she whispers to Julian with playful admiration.

Julian tilts his head to look past her at the woman disappearing around the corner.

”I had no idea someone like that was your type,” he says, trying to make himself sound casual.

Jadzia raises her eyebrows.

”Why not? She certainly has an interesting figure.”

”Certainly,” Julian mumbles.

He scrapes at an invisible stain on the tricorder.

 

The day after, the man is dead. Julian has already gone over the data from his examination twice when the man's daughter steps into the infirmary. She says nothing, just stands there, and the look on her angular face is one of betrayal.

”They all said you were the best,” that look says. ”This is your fault. You were supposed to be good enough, but you failed.”

Then she leaves as silently as she came, wispy fabric swirling around her legs.

 

Miles and Jadzia get off duty early and spend the evening buying Julian drinks at Quark's. They keep telling him that there is nothing he could have done – he would never have known what to look for, none of his instruments would have detected it for him – but when he goes to bed, it is with the woman's face in his head, and as soon as he falls asleep, she is the one dying. He pushes into her, and her ribs snap under his weight.

 

* * *

 

Julian does the only thing possible. He decides to become better.

 

He stays up later and works harder. In one week, he makes more progress in his latest study on prion replication than he has in the last two months. The preliminary results makes him wonder … So he begins another study parallel to the current one, because this is the type of work that still can make him feel good about himself. He gets to challenge his mind, but he is in complete control of what happens, and no one can possibly get hurt.

 

He stretches his arms out in front of him one night and realises that of course it is not only his brain that needs more exercise. Once upon a time, there was a top athlete named Bashir, whose body bore very little resemblance to the one that currently belongs to the Chief Medical Officer of Deep Space Nine. He should be sleeping already, he thinks as he picks up his racket, but sleep will only bring dreams, and what better way is there to clear one's mind than to smash a ball at something?

 

Not long after that, he persuades Miles to set up a booking system for the racquetball court. He creates a training program, figures that with a certain number of hours, he should be able to shape his body just so. He needs to do this, because twenty-five years ago, his parents gave him the key to a success he will never be able to take credit for. This accomplishment is going to be his own.

 

And for a while, there is nothing but the endorphin high and the thrill of the fight.

 

”You're taking good care of yourself,” Miles points out one day during lunch break.

Julian smiles and looks up from his colourful pak choi dish.

”I wouldn't be a very good doctor if I didn't,” he replies.

Nevertheless, this is Miles, who for once did not call him anything at all along the lines of 'annoying' or 'infuriating'. The compliment stays with him all day, and when he gets off duty and into the gym, it gives him the energy to push himself for half an hour extra. When he is done and showered, he shaves for the second time that day and spends a little extra time styling his hair, even if it ends up looking pretty much the same as usual, because this day is special for yet another reason. He picks up the isolinear rod that has been sitting on his desk for nearly two weeks and heads for Garak's Clothiers.

 

Garak greets him with a smile that can only be described as beaming. The neckline of the tailor's close-fitting shirt seems barely narrow enough to keep it on his shoulders, and Julian wonders briefly – and a little out of breath – about the Cardassian concept of modesty.

 

A padd is shoved into his hand.

”What do you think?” Garak asks.

”About what?”

”About the colour! Red would take over, obviously, but blue looks like I'm trying to make a statement. Storm grey looks dull, brown too civilian.”

The padd displays a 3D model of a hip-length coat. Julian sighs and hands it back.

”Look, I have no idea, Garak. You're supposed to be the tailor.”

”You could at least look at it,” Garak mutters. ”I'm considering mass manufacturing.”

”Why not just make it in several colours then?”

Julian can sense that Garak is about to politely explain exactly why that would be a terrible idea, but he has already had enough of the Cardassian's dismissive ramble, so he takes a deep breath and decides to change the subject while there is time.

”Nevermind. I came here to gratulate you on your freedom.”

 

Garak's expression changes minutely.

”Ah, yes. Doctor, if you want another discussion about the reason why I just spent six months in a holding cell, I'm sorry to say I'm not in the mood.”

”Me neither,” Julian says quickly as he holds up the isolinear rod and flicks it between his fingers. ”I do, however, want to give you this.”

”What is it?” Garak asks in delighted surprise, and it is hard to tell whether it stems from honest enthusiasm or merely relief.

”I had one of Felix's colleagues work out a holosuite program that should be a little more to your taste,” Julian explains, ”and –”

He hands Garak the rod.

”– with an actual role of your own written into it.”

”With _women_ of my own, you mean?”

Julian manages a face that is half-smile, half-frown.

”No, not exactly. You do get to shoot me in the end though. _If_ you manage to beat me.”

 

He smiles and observes as Garak's eyes become impossibly wide. His professional side takes instant notice of the unexpected dilation of the pupils, but before he has time to make something of it, Garak has taken over the conversation again.

 

”My dearest doctor! Then I must say I'm twice as grateful for all those exercises and equipment you provided me with while I was imprisoned. Without that _very_ handy treadmill of yours, I'd have walked out of that cell twenty kilos heavier than I walked in and most likely died of a heart attack while valiantly attempting to climb the stairs to the holosuites.”

He steps over to a table and puts the padd down, pausing for no more than a second.

”Being locked away in such a cramped space was stressful to say the least. I didn't want to bother you with my complaints before, but –”

 

Julian lets out a huff of laughter.

”You did complain, Garak. Every time I –”

”Well, perhaps I did complain a little, but you see, I had nothing to do or soothe my nerves with but food, and more food! I'm beginning to feel willing to agree with you – eating can be such an indulgence, especially when there's no work to accomplish between meals. I had a few customers, as you know – all of them obviously driven by desperation – and then there was of course the occasional fellow internee, but let me tell you one thing, Doctor, _no one_ goes leisurely shopping through a security office.”

”I wonder why,” Julian mumbles, forcing a half-hearted smile.

 

He really should get back to work. Garak is right – food tastes better when it has been deserved, and if he finishes his current paper tonight, he can spend at least an hour extra in the gym tomorrow. Garak sighs, as if he has read Julian's thoughts.

”Well, I don't want to keep you busy. And besides, I believe I have a profession to resume.”

He winks and smiles, and Julian wonders what happened to his own brief control over this meeting. He draws a quick breath and decides to salvage what he can.

”Oh, one more thing.”

”Yes, Doctor?”

Garak takes a step closer and places his hand on the small of Julian's back. Julian flinches.

”What can I do for you?” the Cardassian asks, still smiling his sunny smile.

 

It is far from the first touch that they share in six months – Odo would often be persuaded to lower the force field and let Julian into Garak's cell durings his visits – but it is the first time in six months that Julian is not in control.

 

In the brig, he knew that when he took the initiative to share Garak's space, he could count on a few pats on the back or the shoulder. He should have expected it now as well, he realises, but he stopped bothering Odo roughly around the same time that he set up his training program, and apparently his long-term memory has become selective.

 

The hand is still on his back, resting lightly against the bottom of his latissimus dorsi muscles. _This is wrong_ , a cold voice inside him screams. He stares at the slope of Garak's left neck ridge and slowly backs away, trying to make it look like he simply wanted to shift his leg.

”I thought maybe we could have lunch at the Celestial Cafe tomorrow instead of at the Replimat,” he blurts out. ”I've heard they serve a lovely tea.”

Garak looks amused.

”While I agree with you that the Replimat has been somewhat overcrowded these last days, tea sounds a bit insufficient for lunch, don't you think?”

”Oh, they do have food as well, of course.”

”Very well. The Celestial Cafe it is then.”

 

When they part, the loss of the forbidden touch still burns at Julian's skin. He curses inwardly and wishes for a guilt-ridden moment that those six months had not been over, because under no circumstances can Garak be allowed to touch him. Not anymore. Not yet. There are rules now, and Julian needs to do this right.

 

Tea proves to be entirely sufficient for lunch, and Garak just sits there and looks at him as if his bright blue eyes can pierce through flesh and see the fraud inside, and if Julian cries a little in his quarters afterward, he has only himself to blame.

 

* * *

 

He throws himself into dangerous missions, performing impossible tasks, and sails off to the occasional medical conference, where he shines in the rash light of the auditoria as the enlightens his audiences with outstanding theories. In that, everything is exactly as before.

 

He makes sure to add a little safety margin to everything he does. Two hours in the court becomes two hours and a quarter. Any given meal is modified so that the amounts of its less desirable components never exceed certain levels. As long as Julian replicates his own food, he is in control, and he needs to utilise every one of those opportunities to create an insurance for the occasions when someone else is allowed to make the choices for him. It is a sensible approach – damage control in advance.

 

Despite the simplicity of the calculations, he quickly begins to find the counting and planning a little distracting, so he picks one of his favourite breathing exercises and starts using it on a daily basis. It is quite simple: you imagine a large triangle in front of you and then you go clockwise, starting at the top, where you breathe in. At the next angle, you breathe out, then you breathe in, and when you are back at the top again, you breathe out. After that, you follow the triangle around one more time, before you change it into a pentagon and repeat the exercise. Sometimes, Julian goes all the way to the triskaidecagon before he starts over from the beginning again. It becomes another background process in his brain, soothing and focusing.

 

The hours at the racquetball court and in the gym fly past, and it does, in fact, not take long before Julian reaches the goal of his initial training program. Lightheaded, he stands in front of the tall mirror in his quarters and examines his accomplishments as meticulously as if his body has turned into some critical alien specimen. As always, real biology demonstrates more diversity than the theories.

 

Julian's ancestors are Arab. He knows that in ancient Earth history, most of the Arab people belonged to the religion Islam. It is a monotheistic religion, and it has a saying that can be roughly translated as 'God is greater'.

”Greater than what?” Julian once asked his father, who only smiled back at him.

 

Julian measures the various densities and compositions of his muscles. He pinches the area above his hip – pinches it hard, until it hurts. There is nothing wrong with his calculations. It is his body that seems to have failed in its task to comply. He straightens and meets his own eyes in the mirror, takes a good look at the determination in them.

 

He will become better.

 

And then, one of these days, he is going to invite Garak to dinner in his quarters. Julian will be the perfect conversationalist, witty and entertaining, his lean body an irresistible temptation – the human male perfected – and he will take Garak to bed, and in the morning, Garak will stay for breakfast, and Julian will laugh at himself for ever doubting that Garak was in love with him.

 

His skin prickles during the few moments it takes him to change into his nightwear, so he turns up the heat in his quarters before sliding into his bed. He drops his head heavily onto the pillow and closes his eyes as he thinks of Garak. He tries to imagine what those hands will feel like on this body that they still cannot be allowed to touch, and doubt sets in, resonating through him like a jolt from a force field. He wonders which is more vain: to think that Garak perhaps feigns interest in him because Julian has turned out to be of some interest to Cardassia after all, or to think that Garak after all these years still fancies him. Fleeing the question, he reaches for the hypospray on the nightstand and prepares the ambizine that will let him sleep through the night.

 

Garak's disappointment when Julian cancels their lunch the next day comes off as genuine, but Julian knows better than to trust him. He does feel better when the cancellation is done, however, and retreats to the back of the infirmary where he administers the formazine injection that will take him through the day without annoying bursts of tiredness and headache. It is perfectly balanced – maximal efficiency with minimum risk – because this is medicine, and this is what Julian is best at.

 

* * *

 

Avoiding Garak for a while proves to be relatively easy, but when it comes to his fellow senior officers, there is only so much he can do. After a while, he notices that they are becoming increasingly persistent in checking on him for no particular reason and inviting him to one gathering after another. He used to like having visitors or going to places, he reminisces as he stands a little to the side in Sisko's quarters while the others line up to sample tonight's menu.

 

Kira's pregnancy is nearing its completion, and Odo has had over half a year to adapt to his new life as a Solid. At some point, the two of them become involved in a debate on the preferable way to ingest Bajoran shrimp, and by the time everyone is seated at the table, there is a heated discussion going about which foods a pregnant person should absolutely refrain from eating.

”Why don't we ask the doctor?” Miles exclaims. ”Julian, should we allow Kira to eat shrimp or not?”

Jadzia is leaning halfway over the table in an instant.

”Who are any of us to decide what Kira can eat!”

Julian pokes at the offending food on his plate and improvises a vague answer that he hope sounds clever enough. Jadzia shakes her head at him.

 

A few days later, he sips a raktajino with Miles in the Replimat during lunch break. He usually takes his breaks in the infirmary nowadays, and it is really more of a time for him to go over reports than an actual break, but he still finds it hard to disappoint Miles, and he wants to prove that he can be as good a friend as he is a doctor and an athlete.

 

You've spend a lot of time playing racquetball lately,” Miles says carefully, flicking dust from his sleeve. ”You know, if you care for a game sometime, you just need to ask. It's been a while actually, maybe –”

”No,” Julian interrups him. ”That won't be necessary.”

Miles is frowning, so Julian quickly scrambles for something more to say.

”It's – it's not because I'm better than you.”

 _Wait, that was not what I meant,_ something tells him. _Oh god, I shouldn't even be here._

”I'm practicing,” he tries instead, a little hesitantly. ”It's important that I'm in complete control of, um, the exercises.”

He fails to continue the explanation.

”You sure do a lot of exercise,” Miles mutters with his head in his hand.

In that moment, Garak makes the terrible decision to appear.

 

”Garak!” Miles shouts, as if the Cardassian's presence is perfectly acceptable. ”Have a seat.”

Garak sits down, much too close for comfort. His scent invades Julian's space, and Julian hopes in vain that he just miscalculated the concentration of the formazine he gave himself this morning, because suddenly, feelings of giddiness and anger are battling within him. He breathes in a triangle.

 

”I asked Garak to create our costumes for the Trafalgar program,” Miles explains. ”When can they be ready?”

Garak turns to look at Julian, his smile so friendly that it makes Julian cringe. He is unfinished and shapeless and entirely inadequate, and he does not deserve the kindness.

”It seems I have to take the Doctor's measurements again,” Garak says, still smiling. ”Doctor, why don't you stop by the shop some day this week?”

 

* * *

 

Jules Bashir was a disappointing child, physically and mentally. Julian has always had the notion that his physical awkwardness contributed more to his parents' disappointment in him than anyone ever let on.

 

Back in his quarters, he sits down on his bed and closes his eyes as he breathes into his hands. Garak wants to measure him. The play is over. The curtain is falling. No ovations please.

 

 _Ridiculous_ , a corner of his mind whispers. _Garak already knows._ Anyone can see what Julian looks like, and if they see it, then Garak the tailor will have seen it twice as clearly. He probably knows Julians measurements already just from looking at him, so why should Julian disgust him further by forcing him to actually take them?

 

He figures he might be able to replicate the necessary tool and take the measurements himself. Then he would not have to go to Garak, and he could even give the numbers a slight touch up before sending them over. Is the fit of an ancient British uniform really that critical? He shuffles over to the computer and looks it up, and the answer is disheartening.

 

Of course, he could avoid the situation entirely by postponing the holosuite reservation, but there is the matter of him being Miles's best friend, and he cannot let himself fail in that task. Then he suddenly remembers the upcoming duty uniform change. In fact, the other Starfleet members of his staff took a collective break obtain their measurements for the new design last week. It would appear that he has little choice.

 

He paces across the room to look out at the stars as he tries to refocus. All he needs to do is walk into the shop and then manage to stand still for a few moments while the procedure is completed. That is all. And he will get to be close to Garak. None of them will enjoy the situation, and that is unfortunate, but it is still Garak – his presence, his scent … If Julian can just keep both their minds off the appalling nature of the situation …

 

In the end, he conjures up as many distracting questions and topics to discuss as he can, gives them easy-to-remember keywords, and stores them in the angles of his mental polygons. Still, three whole days pass before he summons the courage to approach Garak's shop. When he at last does, he feels almost detached from his own body, and his knees are week to the point where he is afraid of falling over. He knows that a small dose of improvoline could have calmed him down, but, in the end, there are only so many articifial improvements he can stand being subject to.

 

The moment before the entrance comes into full view, Julian breathes out and braces himself. He erases the heptagon in his mind and starts from the beginning again. The shop will just have opened – his plan is to be the only customer at this hour. He walks the last few meters with quick strides and steps inside.

 

It seems that fortune is not with him today. Garak is standing outside one of the fitting rooms, talking in a soft voice to the person inside. Julian cannot make out the words for the mist in his head. The tailor deftly detangles one of the garments hanging over his arm from the others and slips it past the curtain. Only then does he take a step back and acknowledge Julian with a smile and a quiet nod. It is pure reflex that makes Julian smile back, because all his thoughts are occupied with this confusing change of plans. He steps over to a clothing rack and begins to shuffle through the clothes, realising too late that these are women's clothes, and all the time, he can see Garak from the corner of his eye. The Cardassian just stands there, looking at him.

 

A thought hits Julian. What if this whole business with the measurements is just a set up by Miles and Garak in order to humiliate him? And tomorrow morning, the numbers will accidentally have ended up in every computer on the station, and everyone will laugh at the pathetic Julian Bashir who tries to be a doctor, but cannot even keep his own body from floating apart. _That's beyond stupid,_ another part of him states. _You're getting paranoid, Julian. Just stop it._ He turns his head as the other customer at last exists the fitting room, and –

 

It is Ziyal.

 

Despite her heritage, everyone in their right mind can see that Ziyal is beautiful. More than that, she is Cardassian. Julian has no need for paranoia – he is ultimately, thoroughly humiliated all by his own doing. He turns back to the stupid rack of women's clothes and stares at them until Ziyal has payed for her purchase and left the shop.

 

”Good morning, Doctor. You seem a bit preoccupied,” Garak quips at last.

”I am,” Julian says, forcing his mouth to shape around the words. ”I've got two surgeries before noon, and another two this afternoon. One of them is very critical.”

”Well then, let's get to this, shall we?” Garak replies, smiling that overly friendly smile that means he is not fooled for a second. ”Which one?”

He picks up his sizing scanner.

”A heart replacement,” Julian mumbles. ”Bajoran heart replacement. Requires significantly more accuracy than the procedure performed on humans.”

”I see,” Garak says.

 

Julian considers his options. It takes him only a few seconds to realise that there is really only one thing he can do. He has lost control over his breathing and forgotten every single one of his discussion topics, but he decides to focus on the task of standing still, because he knows that if he bolts now, he will start crying right in the middle of the Promenade.

 

Garak activates the scanner and holds it up to Julian's shoulders. Julian closes his eyes. Some ancient Earth cultures believed that the gods judged the souls of the dead by weighing them on a scale. Today, they use a laser pointer in the hands of a Cardassian tailor.

 

* * *

 

Miles obtains the finished costumes a couple of weeks later. Julian runs his fingers over his new, beautifully detailed coat, imagining where Garak's hands must have pressed and pulled at the rich navy fabric to put all the parts in place. Then he puts the costume away in the bottom drawer of his bureau and gets back to work.

 

A long-term research project related to some of his interests and competences presents itself the same day, and he signs up for it after only a moment's consideration. Most members of the original research team will be conducting fieldwork while having limited access to computers for analysis, so Julian's duty will be to process some of their collected data and return recommendations on how to direct their efforts. It will take him considerably less time than anyone will anticipate, so when he is done contributing to society, he can spend time working out while still having the perfect excuse for never being able to see Garak again.

 

For a long time now, Julian has been almost certain that Garak's plain and simple initial motive for befriending him was neither to earn a lunch companion nor to obtain some Federation secrets. Socially inept as always, all the agonisingly obvious hints went over his head while he kept pursuing his usual comfortable but ultimately unsatisfying targets. Leeta stuck with him longer than the others, but even she eventually realised that his heart was not truly in it.

 

He is different now – a few years of 'frontier medicine' will do that to even the most innocent of people – but by the time he began to realise what had been going on, his suitor had apparently changed his mind and moved on. He wonders what might have been if he had slept with Garak all those years ago, before he began to look at himself with so much shame and loathing.

 

Julian is past the point where his body can heal the exercise-induced microtrauma to his muscles sufficiently in a natural way, but he is still a doctor, and fifteen minutes of regeneration therapy every day does wonders. It does not take away the constant pain and soreness, but neither does he want it to. The therapy comes dangerously close to cheating. It is only right that there is a price to be paid for it.

 

And he would lie if he claimed that his muscles are the only parts of him that hurt, or that his stomach never growls with a hunger that he cannot quite understand anymore, but what matters is that his body is getting firmer. He examines himself daily and adds the data to a little program that extrapolates his progress. There is something strange about it though, he thinks, because even though the numbers are increasingly satisfying, he never quite feels any satisfaction. The current prognosis is that he will reach his latest stretch goal on stardate 50489.2. Perhaps everything will finally be different then.

 

Whether or no, there will come a day when he will be done with all of this, and then he will … _No_. Suddenly, he has a much better idea. He is going to sleep with Ziyal. He is going to give that Cardassian bitch the pounding of her life, just to see the look on Garak's grey face.

”This is what you could have had, Garak. Not so arrogant now, are we?”

Julian has never talked like that about women, not even in his head. He hates himself even more afterward.

 

One morning, Miles drops by Julian's quarters right in the middle of breakfast. He looks at the treadmill in far the corner of the living room, and then at the tall glass in Julian's hand, still half filled with pink liquid.

 

”Hello, Julian. May I come in?”

Julian steps aside and makes a somewhat hesitant welcoming gesture. His friend gives him a smile that is equally unreassuring.

”I, um – I thought I should stop by and see how you're doing.”

Julian's frown deepens.

”I'm doing fine. Has something happened?”

”No,” Miles says quickly. ”No, it's just …”

He shrugs and shoots Julian a pleading look.

”Don't get me wrong, it's just that – well, as of late, everyone's been asking me about you _a lot_. 'How's Julian? What's Julian doing tonight? Doctor Bashir looked a bit faint today!' And I don't have any answers, because let's face it, you barely talk to me either anymore.”

 

Julian sighs. Perhaps, if he just stands there, Miles will eventually feel awkward enough to leave. He wants to finish his breakfeast and go to work, and the last thing he wants is to answer intrusive questions. Miles looks at the glass again.

”What's that?” he asks.

Julian eyes him with suspicion. Then, in a second, it turns into open hostility as he realises that this is more than he can stand, this is where he draws the line, and his friend has crossed it like a Jem'Hadar attack ship warping into Federation space.

”It's just a drink. Oh, and by the way, it contains all essential human nutrients, molecularly tailored to fit my individual metabolism down to the last nucleotide synthesis cycle, so you see, _Miles_ –” he spits out the name as if it burns his tongue, ”I'm perfectly able to take care of myself, and frankly, I don't know what you're doing here, and I don't care. I want you out of here. _Now_.”

 

He stares blankly at the door as it closes behind his friend. Then the glass hits the wall, followed by whatever furniture he gets his hands on. There are red scrapes on his knuckles and his throat is raw by the time he actually calls in sick and tremblingly puts himself back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

He should have known that things would eventually go wrong. He should have known when he actually does miscalculate the dosage of his ambizine injection and ends up drooling all over his pillow for nine hours until Jadzia violently shakes him back to life and informs him that the has twenty minutes to pack and get to the airlock before the Rio Grande departs.

 

As Sisko put it, the mission is simple. Deliver the medical supplies and get the hell out of there.

 

Civil war has broken out on a Federation colony in the Demilitarized Zone between the local Maquis and Federation loyalists, and the loyalists have already suffered heavy losses. A Federation starship assigned to aid them is due to arrive in two days, but two days is a long time for every haemorrhaging patient in desperate need of blood transfusions.

 

Ensign Carson stays in the runabout while Julian and Jadzia beam down to the surface. They have just completed the delivery when a sensor interference prevents them from transporting back, and all of a sudden it is the Battle of Ajilon Prime all over again – performing surgery in an underground field hospital while counting the hours before the enemy will reach their location.

 

”This isn't right,” Julian whispers as he manually monitors his patients' vital signs. ”There are Klingons, Cardassians, and the Dominion out there, and here we are, fighting each other.”

”It's easy for you to come dragging with that 'mankind united' perspective of yours,” the other doctor nearby remarks loudly. ”You don't live here.”

Julian shoots him a wry, incredulous smile.

”No, that's right. I live on Deep Space Nine.”

 

In the next moment, two more patients with secondary blast injuries are brought in, and Julian prepares for surgery again. There is movement and noise everywhere around him, and he has lost count of the hours since he last sat down. There is not enough space anywhere to put neither people nor equipment, and the air is slowly getting worse.

 

He closes the last wound and hands the patient over to the assisting nurse before staggering off a few meters to lean against the wall. He is still in the way of everyone, so he retreats into one of the narrow tunnels built for emergency evacuation. A wave of nausea wells up inside him, and he is beginning to feel severely disoriented. He keeps throwing glances into the impenetrable darkness of the tunnel, and suddenly, he realises exactly how insidious the Maquis are. With a hoarse cry, he flings himself back into the cavern.

”They're coming from behind! They're flooding the tunnels with some sort of gas!”

Both vision and hearing are gone even as he stumbles to his knees.

 

When he wakes up, the first thing that meets his eyes is the blurry face of the nurse he worked with earlier. What was his name? Okocha? He licks his lips and tries to swallow, but his throat is so dry. There is an IV attached to his arm. Okocha – he hopes that is right – helps him sit up and hands him a bottle of water.

”Did you get everyone out?” Julian rasps as soon as he has swallowed the first mouthful.

Okocha gives him a questioning look.

”Out from where?”

”The caves,” Julian tries. ”Away from the gas! Where is Jadzia?”

Julian strains to look around, but Okocha takes a firm hold of his shoulders.

”Doctor, in case you haven't noticed, we haven't gone anywhere. There was no gas. You fainted.”

 

”I did what?”

Julian squints at the admittedly familiar surroundings bathing in light that is still a little too bright for him. His nurse sighs.

”Commander Dax is just outside, by the way.”

Julian barely registers the words.

”Fainted? Why?”

”Apparently you suffer from both hypotension and hypovolaemic hyponatraemia.”

”That's ridiculous! Where's my tricorder?”

Okocha throws his hands in the air.

”Say what you want. Now if you'll excuse me, Doctor, I've got other patients to see to.”

Julian asks for the tricorder again, a little louder, but Okocha has already turned his back to him, so he waits another moment, and then he carefully removes the IV and climbs off the bed to find Jadzia.

 

Jadzia is standing right outside the main entrance, just as Okocha said. Julian walks up to her, very slowly, because his head is still spinning and aching as if it is about to split in two. He draws a deep breath and wrings his mouth into a pained smile before he opens it.

”Jadzia, there you are! When can –”

She turns around and meets his eyes, the gravity of her expression effectively cutting him off mid-sentence.

”Julian. How do you feel?”

Her beautiful eyes are dark with worry. Julian mirrors her frown.

”Why do you ask? Uh – Does everyone here know what happened?”

”Why shouldn't I? And no, only about half of us.”

 

She is still frowning, but the little smirk she has just added is exceptionally annoying.

” _Hi_ _la_ _rious!_ ” he snaps, his eyes forming slits. ”But since I guess you won't leave me alone until I answer … According to Nurse Okocha, my blood pressure, sodium, and water levels were too low. The prognosis is that I will live. Is that simple enough for you, or do you want me to take you through the entire illustrated guide of Doctor Julian Bashir's physiological shortcomings?”

Jadzia coldly ignores the provocation.

”I can't say I'm surprised.”

 

Julian stares at her, a little out of breath from his speech and the pain in his head.

”I don't believe you,” he says slowly, making a point of shaking his head even though it hurts. ”You're supposed to be my friend.”

Jadzia reaches out and grabs his arm then. Julian goes rigid, prepared to get away from her by any means necessary, but after a second the touch strangely enough begins to ground him. When Jadzia speaks again, there is a new softness to her voice.

”Just stay calm, Julian. Listen. Carson has found a way to get us out of here.”

Julian swallows.

”That's about time,” he says weakly.

”She's asked for ten more minutes, do you think you can manage?”

Julian straightens and nods slowly.

”Yes. Don't worry.”

 

A few minutes later, they are back in the runabout. Jadzia takes her seat beside Carson in the cockpit, but Julian disappears into the rear, followed by the fading sounds of their voices, which are soon drowned out by the pounding in his head. He stays there for the rest of the journey home – sleeping and breathing and wishing fervently that he was someone else, anyone else.

 

* * *

 

He gets called into Sisko's office first thing in the morning the day after his return to the station. The small hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he rides the turbolift to Ops. At least, those godforsaken caves were warm. Why is it always so cold here?

 

He rushes past his colleagues in Ops and rings the bell to Sisko's quarters, only to notice that Sisko is not in yet, so he studies the wall for a while and breathes in a melancholic pentagon. Of course it is cold. He has lost a substantial portion of the subcutaneous fat that is supposed to keep him warm. _Stop it, Julian. You're a doctor, not an idiot._

 

A minute later, Sisko emerges from the turbolift and shows him in.

”Good morning, Doctor. I'm sorry I've kept you waiting.”

The doors slide shut behind them, and Julian does his best to refocus.

”No need to apologise, sir.”

The captain crosses the room and sits down heavily in his chair.

”I read Dax's mission report as soon as she sent it to me.”

He picks up the baseball from its stand on his desk. Julian clears his throat.

”Were there, um, any questions you want me to sort out for you?”

”As a matter of fact, _no_.”

 

Sisko puts the ball down on the desk and gives it a menacing spin.

”According to Dax, you passed out during the last day, due to low blood pressure and dehydration.”

Julian draws a breath.

”Actually, it was the hyponatraemia and not the hypohydration that …”

He falls silent again, wincing. _See_ , a voice whispers. _This is why everyone hates you_. He corrects himself haltingly.

”But, um, I guess you got most of it right. Maybe the details don't matter.”

Sisko's sharp staccato voice lashes at him.

”No, that's right. They don't. What matters is that one of my officers rendered himself unable to perform his duty, thus endangering the lives of other people. Doctor, you performed surgery minutes before you lost consciousness! I hope you know what this means.”

”I do, sir. Fully, sir.”

”I want it to be absolutely clear to you that I can have you court-martialed for negligence.”

”I understand. Sir.”

 

Right now, in this moment, Julian would not blame anyone even if they threw him out of Starfleet. God knows he has not deserved to be here in the first place. Successful people with low self-esteem often think of themselves as frauds, but Julian knows what it is to actually be one. Bring in the jury, by all means.

 

Sisko sighs and puts his head in his hands.

”But –,” he says in a gentler tone when he looks up at Julian again, ”I'm not going to do that. At least not for the time being.”

”Sir?”

Sisko straightens.

”As of this moment, you are relieved of duty. All exercise equipment in your quarters will be confiscated and put in storage until further notice. I'll have Odo standing by as soon as you leave my office. You're also forbidden to use _any_ exercise facilities on the station. Violation of this will result in immediate confinement to quarters.”

”For how long?”

For a second, Julian half-expects Sisko's head to explode, but the captain just puts his hands on the edge of the desk and flattens them very, very slowly.

”Wrong question, Doctor. Dismissed.”

 

* * *

 

Odo shows up alone and beams his findings out of Julian's quarters after having searched through every cubic inch of them. They barely say a word to each other during the whole procedure, but the constable's silent discretion is all Julian needs.

 

Being off duty at least means that Julian is liberated from wearing uniform. As soon as Odo has left, he leaves it in a pile on the floor and changes into a bulky black sweater with matching pants while trying to look at himself as little possible. He feels slightly better again when that is done.

 

Sisko made it clear that he will not be paying the gym or the raqcuetball court any more visits in the nearest future, but surely no one can stop him from walking? He exits his quarters and starts with the habitat ring, focusing on his breathing as he sets a fast pace down the smoothly curved corridor. _Top angle_ _–_ _in, right lower angle_ _–_ _out, left lower angle_ _–_ _in, top angle_ _–_ _out_ _._ _Oh god, I'm so repulsive. Right lower angle_ _–_ _in_ _._

 

Some minutes later, he changes course. There are a few things he needs to pick up from the infirmary before he can go on with his temporary life as a civilian. He pictures the work he had planned do to today in his mind – well, it will have to wait now. As it happens, the research project he gives an extra hand now and then has nothing to do with Starfleet, so no one can force him to be completely idle, but that is little comfort when his thoughts keep coming back to Jadzia's smirk and Sisko's voice, and the extrapolated curve in his little program that will cease to look the way it is supposed to unless he can solve this situation soon.

 

Then he suddenly remembers a dream from last night. The haze of his sedative usually makes him forget his nightmares as soon as he wakes up, but he recalls this one now, because it had Jadzia in it. She stood on the Promenade, talking to Garak, when the walls exploded. And when the smoke cleared, and Julian found Garak on the floor of the level below with a piece of black metal protruding from his stomach, she stood in the pool of blood around him and smirked.

 

Garak's injuries matched those of Julian's last patient back in the caves. A long lost voice stirs within him as he approaches the entrance to the Promenade, whispering quietly: _this is enough_.

 

Julian makes a pact with himself there and then, and seals it with four deep nail scratches on his left arm, under the sleeve. He will reach his latest stretch goal, and then he will go back to his life. No more starving, no more special food, no more measuring or counting or planning. One last effort, and he will be done – he will find a way to do it, and he will show everyone that he is better than this.

 

He takes the shortest route across the Promenade toward the infirmary and manages to both download some files from the main computer and collect several hypospray vials without being disturbed. It is not exactly illegal, he tells himself, but he would rather avoid any questions. A perverse, utterly selfish part of him wants to stay longer with the hope that an emergency will arise that calls for Doctor Bashir to step forth, like a bright beacon of light, and save the day when all others fail. He represses the thought with dread and walks toward the exit before anything of the sort can happen.

 

His luck seems to run out halfway across the Promenade.

 

”Doctor!”

Of all people, it is Quark who approaches him. He does not, however, look hurt or distressed. _It could have been worse_ , Julian tells himself as he takes a slow, deep breath and tries to ignore the myriad of frightening scenarios already playing in front of his eyes.

”Doctor,” the Ferengi pants again as he at last catches up with Julian's pace.

”Quark.”

”Oh, I'm so glad I found you! I heard about your relief of duty _–_ sad business, all of it – I just want you to know that I'm terribly sorry. If there's anything –”

Julian looks straight over his head.

”Look, if you have a point to make, then make it and leave me alone.”

”No, no! Nothing of the sort, absolutely not. I can't imagine why you'd think that. No, I was just thinking …”

The Ferengi turns his head from side to side to look around and then waves his hands in front of him, ushering Julian toward the nearest wall. Julian should not agree to this, but his head is still a little fuzzy, and the smooth wall behind him feels shamefully good to lean against.

 

In a hushed voice, Quark promptly returns to the subject.

”If you're relieved of duty, then you won't be going to the senior staff meeting held at fifteen hundred hours today.”

Julian feels his face freeze into a frown.

”What meeting?”

Quark shrugs.

”Oh, I wouldn't know. _But_ – if you're interested, maybe I could –”

”Forget it, Quark! I'm still a Starfleet officer, and you'll be reported for this.”

Julian steps away from the wall, but Quark takes hold of his arm and stops him from leaving.

”Oh, come on! Sure, you could report me, but then you'd never _know._ Aren't you at least a little bit curious? It could be about a new war, you know. Or … maybe even about you.”

 

Their eyes meet, and Quark's are already glittering with victory.

”About _me_?”

Julian's voice comes out more high-pitched than he intended.

”But why?” he continues, whispering this time, not sure if he is talking to Quark or himself. ”What reason would Sisko have for holding a meeting about _me_?”

”You tell me,” Quark replies slyly. ”All I'm saying is – I might have heard things, and if you want to hear things too, say, maybe a recording of that meeting, I might be able to arrange that.”

 

Five minutes ago, Julian worried about having to explain himself to the personnel in the infirmary. It is funny how quickly things are put in perspective sometimes. Quark is tapping his fingers against each other, waiting for an answer.

 

 _Oh, wouldn't you want to know? You already know they talk about you. You know what they think about you. Naive. Annoying. A paragon of arrogance_ _who thinks far too highly of himself. A lazy, sloppy idiot who faints on missions and cries in his quarters, who holds a position he doesn't deserve and pines away for someone who finds him as repulsive as everyone else does. You know what they say about you. And yet, you can't find your peace with it_ _–_ _and that's because you lack proof._

 

Later, Julian will utterly fail to recall which parts of the conversation that were conducted between him and Quark and which were only taking place in his head. At some point, however, his mind is made up.

 

”Alright. I'll discuss it, on one condition.”

Quark throws his hands out in a leisurely, benign gesture.

”Everything can be bought at a price.”

Julian shows teeth.

” _Never_ mention my 'relief of duty' again.”

 

* * *

 

The clock strikes fourteen thirty hours. Julian Bashir is walking. In half an hour, he will sit down, feed the isolinear rod he has bought from Quark to his computer, and recite his clearance code to access a live stream. The type of program is common enough – in theory, anyone could get their hands on one – but without a level five security clearance, it is useless, which means that selling or buying it can hardly be considered illegal. At least, that is what Quark told him.

 

Fifteen minutes left. A growing part of Julian hopes that all his codes were properly invalidated along with his work permit. He is shivering now. He should to his quarters where it is warmer, replicate one of his tailored drinks, and then lie down and try to stop his heart from beating its way out of his ribcage. He walks for ten more minutes.

 

Two minutes past fifteen hundred hours, Julian has wrapped himself up in a blanket in front of the computer screen and taken half a sip of his drink.

” _Authorisation required._ ”

”Authorisation … Bashir nine one alpha.”

”… _Confirmed._ ”

The station's wardroom fades into view. Julian feels sick to his stomach.

 

The first thing he notices is that Kira, Odo and Worf are absent. Instead, Leeta is just sitting down in one of the armchairs. Julian tells the computer to split the screen between all available cameras. There are two, as it turns out, and the other one is showing the same scene, but from the far end of the room. He switches back to only the first one and watches as Sisko and Jadzia sit down next to each other on the couch facing the door and away from him. Miles already sits in the armchair next to Leeta's. _Of course_ , Julian thinks. Leeta is the reason why Quark knew about the meeting – and now Julian too knows one thing for certain. This meeting will not be about a new war.

 

Suddenly, the door on the screen chimes.

”Enter,” Sisko says after a moment's silence, the hesitation in his voice unmistakable.

Miles and Leeta turn in their chairs as the door opens – and someone Julian has not seen in weeks steps in.

”Good afternoon,” Garak says softly. ”I beg you to pardon the intrusion, but I do believe I may be of service here.”

The lights in the room create a soft, streaked pattern across his face. Sisko shifts and leans forward.

”What the –”

Jadzia lays her hand on his shoulder. Her shadowed profile becomes visible to the camera as she turns her head, but despite all the years Julian spent studying that face, he cannot read her expression.

”I see no reason why not,” she says and is rising even before Sisko has the time to open his mouth to respond. ”You can have my seat, Garak.”

She steps around the small table in front of her as Sisko shuffles closer to the edge of the couch, and there is an awkward moment where everyone is trying their best to dodge around each other. Julian wishes it would last longer.

 

”Well,” Sisko sighs, ”you all know why we're here.”

He is still facing away from the camera, but Julian can imagine him throwing a glance at Garak.

”I suppose I don't have to explain that the matter of discussion is to be handled with the uttermost respect for Doctor Bashir's personal integrity.”

”Because arranging a meeting in the wardroom about me _clearly_ proves your concern for my integrity!” Julian snaps at the screen.

”Now,” Sisko continues, turning to Jadzia, ”please begin the briefing.”

Jadzia nods stiffly and puts her hands behind her back.

”I've done a little investigating,” she begins, ”and I would say it's clear beyond doubt that Julian is in need of professional treatment. I believe he's been suffering from an eating disorder for at least half a year, but it's likely that some of his problems have been going on for much longer. To put it simply, we have no resources on this station for dealing with something on this level.”

 

Miles clears his throat.

”Um, I'm sorry, I don't think I follow. I always thought eating disorders had to do with – well, weight loss and all that. But Julian's been thin as a twig since the first day I saw him, and he seemed healthy enough back then?”

Julian digs his nails back into his arm. Two more weeks will never, ever be enough.

”Well,” Jadzia says patiently, ”that _is_ still a classic perception of what an eating disorder is like, but I believe what Julian is suffering from meets the criteria for _EDSA two_ – Eating Disorder Seong-Austerlitz type two. It's mainly characterised by excessive exercising and not by an obsession with weight, even if food restrictions do occur in a similar manner.”

 

There is a short pause before Garak speaks.

”Commander?” he says quietly and waits politely for Jadzia's attention before continuing. ”May I ask what previous experience you have with cases like this one?”

”None as a professional, I'm afraid. But I've had several lifetimes of friends, and Emony had a younger sister named Ely, who developed anorexia nervosa at the age of fifteen.”

”Emony was the Olympic gymnast,” Leeta fills in.

”And she could never quite shake off the thought that her profession made her partially responsible for Ely's disease,” Jadzia adds in a low voice.

It is almost a whisper.

”What happened to Ely?” Sisko asks.

Jadzia turns to look at him with mild eyes.

”She died.”

Garak shifts visibly.

”She wasn't a doctor,” Julian whispers firmly to the little image on the screen. ”Trust me not to draw _that_ much attention to myself.”

 

”I see,” Garak says after a moment. Only the outline of his left eyeridge is visible to the camera. ”And as for the treatment you mentioned earlier – I assume you have a proposal?”

”I do.”

Jadzia begins to pace back and forth slowly.

”The Seong Institute on Mars is renowned for its research on body perception and eating disorders, but they also have a residential treatment center with an astonishing success rate in treating cases like Julian's. I took the freedom of contacting them anonymously, and they said Julian can be evaluated holographically and admitted into treatment within two weeks from his application. Provided he _will_ be admitted, which the woman I spoke to was certain of, he could technically apply on his way there.”

 

Whatever Jadzia and the others discuss next is lost to Julian as he scans his memory for references to the Seong Institute. He snaps back to what is happening in the wardroom when Garak's voice suddenly rises above the others again.

”So, when can the Doctor be on his way?”

”Well,” Jadzia says. ”That's the catch. The Seong RTC only accepts voluntary applications.”

”Which –” Sisko adds, ”is why I called you here.”

 

The blanket slips off Julian's shoulder.

”You talked this long before even getting to the purpose of the meeting?” he yells at the screen. ”God, you must love talking about me! You'd think 'only voluntary applications' would speak for itself, but _no_ , you know I won't cooperate, so now you're going to try and figure out some way of forcing me anyway. You want the scrawny, shapeless, lazy Julian, so you can laugh behind my back like you always have. Why won't you just leave me alone?”

 

He falls silent again, just in time to hear Miles explain how he and Julian seem to have fallen out with each other and that he doubts Julian would want to listen to him. Jadzia said something similar just before, Julian concludes from the way Miles chooses his words.

”Leeta, what do you think?” Sisko asks.

 _Oh god_ , Julian thinks, his stomach clenching with sudden realisation. _Please say yes. Because if you don't_ _–_

”I don't know,” Leeta says and bites her lip. ”I mean, first I dumped him, and now we've barely talked in months.”

”She's got a point,” Jadzia remarks with a glance at Sisko.

Julian closes his eyes and covers his face in his hands.

”As I said,” Garak's measured voice says, ”I believe I may be of use.”

 

* * *

 

Julian writes a formal report against Sisko and puts it away without filing it. Something tells him that admitting to espionage will not aid his cause any more than having actively neglected his health will.

 

The fact that three days have now passed since his return to the station does nothing to soothe his nerves. He can do as many push ups as he likes on the floor in his quarters, but it is far from the same thing as being in the gym, where everything is carefully measured and certain to target exactly the right muscles in an exactly symmetrical pattern. The endorphin withdrawal symptoms adds to his distress, and eventually the only thing that makes him bother at all with at least showering once in a while is that, any minute now, Garak might show up. _Why is he delaying?_

 

Julian is awakened by a hand shaking his shoulder.

”Jadzia?” he whispers, curling up.

”I'm sorry to disappoint you, Doctor.”

”Computer, lights!”

He jerks up, clutching his blankets hard to his chest. Garak is sitting right next to him on the side of the bed, looking strangely serene.

”Bashir to –”

Then comes the orthostatic hypotension, hitting him like a phaser blast, and the world goes black for a moment. He must be swaying, because Garak puts one hand on his back and the other on his shoulder and eases him down again, despite his feeble struggle to stay upright.

”Easy now, Doctor. Computer, reduce lights by fifty percent.”

” _Bashir to_ _–_ ”

”My dear, who do you think let me into your quarters in the first place? I promise you that Security will have little interest in escorting me out again just yet.”

 

Julian struggles back into a sitting position as far away from his unwelcome guest as he can get. The bed is too narrow for him to put a comfortable distance between them, but he is still dizzy enough that an attempt at standing up is out of the question.

”Garak! What the _hell_ are you doing here?”

”Why, I came to talk to you, Doctor.”

”No, wait. That's not what I meant.”

He raises a trembling hand and points at the Cardassian.

”I know why you're here. I saw and heard everything of that meeting of yours in the wardroom. I know all about your plan.”

 

There is the smallest of pauses before Garak replies.

”Do you really? How industrious of you! I'm impressed.”

”Enough of this! Did it ever occur to you that barging in here in the middle of the night wouldn't be welcome?”

”I would hardly call oh five hundred hours 'the middle of the night', but very well – if you must know, my hope was that the residual effects of the sedative you use every night would allow this conversation to flow with a little less aggravation.”

 

Julian's heart beats hard enough to hurt.

”I – You mean _that_ was your plan? You wanted me drugged compliant?”

”Oh, you misunderstand me. I merely wished for you to be more at ease, but I can see that this part of my so-called plan didn't quite work out.”

”No, it didn't. Now get out.”

The words are cut sharp, but Garak's skin proves to be just as thick as always.

”My dear. Why don't you take a moment to get dressed, and when you're done, I'll be waiting for you on the couch in your living room?”

He rises in one smooth move and walks out through the door with a last, forgiving smile at Julian.

 

However tempting it may be to stay in the shower for hours, until Garak is sure to have tired and left, Julian goes through his morning routine faster than usual. He chooses the same black clothes as the days before and tugs at them in front of the mirror, until he feels certain enough that his most disturbing secrets will be hidden from Garak's beautiful eyes. Then he counts his breaths and walks toward the bedroom door on three, wishing that somewhere between all the polygons and the creases in his clothes, he would have thought of something to say.

 

* * *

 

Garak looks up and blinks slowly at him as he enters. Julian heads for the armchair opposite of the couch, but Garak instantly gives him a small, disapproving smile and makes a subtle move as if to rise and approach him. Julian stops dead, then changes course and walks defeated to the edge of the couch instead. He slumps down in the corner and tugs a little at his clothes again, before he pulls the throw pillow out from behind his back and puts it over his thighs.

 

”Please, make yourself comfortable,” Garak says calmly. ”Do you want me to get you something? Tarkalean tea, perhaps? Or a raktajino?”

”I can take care of myself in my own quarters, thank you very much.”

”As you wish. I'm only trying to be friendly.”

”You can be friendly to someone else.”

Garak tilts his head and studies him with an unreadable expression.

”Really, Doctor,” he says after a moment, ”you know very well that charity is never on my agenda.”

Julian swallows.

”That may be so. But lying is.”

 

Garak sighs.

”I can see that this is going to take some effort. Though, that being said, I must thank you for setting your Starfleet morals aside for once and spying on our little meeting. It makes the dull part of my job here altogether redundant.”

Julian strangles the pillow.

”You _enjoy_ this, don't you? This is exactly the kind of thing you used to live for. And now you get to conspire against me along with everyone else – execute the plans yourself to get me off the station – bend me into compliance, so you can have me locked away and destroyed. I bet you've missed it, Garak.”

 

Garak's face is a patient facade of 'just let me know when you have finished'. When Julian just stares at him, he takes over with only the tiniest hint of tension in his lips.

”Believe me, my dear. If that was the case, we wouldn't be having this conversation at all.”

”And why _are_ we having this conversation, Garak? Am I to believe you have nothing better to do with your time?”

At last, the fine lines in Garak's face seem to betray hesitation. Julian is merely seconds from getting up and trying to make him leave when he speaks again.

” _Julian_ , nothing is more worthy of my time than you are.”

 

It takes a moment to comprehend.

 

”Stop it,” Julian whispers eventually. ”Don't you dare lie about something like this.”

Garak's jaw is set firm.

”Three years ago,” he says loudly, ”you saved my life when my implant was breaking down inside of me. It seems that we have to come share the experience of hurting ourselves in order to survive. However, you helped me to find a way out of my … _predicament._ I want to do the same for you.”

 

 _Obviously._ Blood rushes in Julian's ears as the familiar inner voice starts screaming at him. _You pathetic idiot, what did you expect?_

”I don't need your help,” he snaps. ”I'm fine.”

”With all due respect, Doctor, you are anything but fine. Now –”

”I'm a doctor. It was my duty to help you. You don't owe me anything, and you have no right to interfere with my life.”

He rises.

”Please,” Garak begs, ”sit down.”

Julian waits for sharp words that never come. Instead, Garak looks up at him with an expression so strange and vulnerable that he, after a second, averts his eyes and simply obeys. Suddenly, Garak's wishes once more take precedence over his own.

 

”Thank you,” Garak says softly. ”Now you must listen to me.”

Julian stares down at the winding patterns on the pillow and hopes that Garak cannot see him tremble.

”I'll listen when you start telling the truth,” he manages to answer.

Garak clicks his tongue.

”Haven't I ever told you that _truth_ is in the eye of the beholder?”

Julian looks up.

”Don't.”

A part of his brain observes that the strange earlier look on Garak's face seems to have evolved into a battle between determination and a hesitation that almost borders on terror. Then the Cardassian smiles faintly, eyes bright, and raises both his hands in a plea not to be interrupted.

”If I'm not mistaken I am beholding you right now,” he says slowly, ”and what _I_ see is a brilliant, extraordinary, and very, very beautiful man.”

For a single moment, there are fireworks exploding in Julian's mind, but the spell lasts only so long.

 

”I told you not to lie to me, Garak. I don't need you to mock and ridicule me on every single level! I'm not stupid, no matter what you think. There's _nothing_ about me that's beautiful. Hell knows I'm not even approaching acceptable!”

Garak sighs and tilts his head.

”And here I was, thinking that your Starfleet Prime Directive prohibited you from interfering with my beliefs.”

His voice comes out a little shaky despite the facetious nature of the comment, as if determination still has not won over terror.

”If those are really your beliefs,” Julian replies, breathing quickly, ”how come you've never told me anything about them before? It seems remarkably convenient that you remembered to mention all of that just now.”

”It does, doesn't it? However, if you can't find the real answer to that question within you, I must warn you that I'm beginning to run short of options.”

 

For one of the first times, Garak's attempt at delivering a threat fails to impress. Julian shakes his head.

”I'm afraid the burden of proof is still on you. So far you haven't tried to convince me of _anything._ ”

This earns him another sigh.

”Oh, I was hoping you'd give me the benefit of the doubt, but I can see it's not going be that way. Very well. I suppose I should be proud of you for not simply accepting my verbal platitudes of affection.”

Julian speaks through closed teeth, wondering how many times the circle of arguments has yet to go around.

”Then you may want to consider trying something else.”

 

”Doctor,” Garak says, and pauses for a second before he continues – _fear again_ , something in the back of Julian's brain observes. ”In that case, I do believe the demonstration I have in mind would require your explicit consent. Do I have it?”

Julian throws his hands up, releasing the crumpled pillow from his grasp.

”Yes. You have my permission to do whatever it takes, short of injuring someone, to convince me that I'm not just a disgusting idiot being played like a fiddle by a not-so-secret agent for the convenience and amusement of the rest of the world. I can't believe Sisko let you –”

 

Faster than Julian would have though possible, Garak leans forward and grips the back of his neck. In the next second, their lips are pressed together. Garak holds him like a vice, fingernails digging into the sides of his throat while the other hand strokes and massages his back and shoulder with passionate force. Julian instinctively tenses and struggles, until he cannot help but gasp and Garak's tongue slides into his mouth, probing it gently before retreating again.

 

Garak sits back and wipes his mouth unceremoniously on the back of his hand. Julian straightens and watches him in silence.

 

”I hope didn't hurt you,” Garak says eventually.

His voice sounds a little flat.

”No,” Julian answers quickly, shaking his head. ”You didn't.”

”Good. After all, you told me not to.”

 

In another universe, another Julian would have had something to say on cultural differences regarding consent.

”So, um …” the Julian of this universe mumbles, ”the question remains.”

Garak blinks.

”Now, which question are you referring to, Doctor? There were more than one, I believe. Are you sure I can't get you something? You look a little faint.”

”I'm fine. And no, there's just one at the moment. 'Why now'?”

”You still don't trust me, do you?”

”I thought you preferred it that way.”

 

Julian is sincere, but Garak seems to stop just short of rolling his eyes at the words. It is a strange expression on the face of a man who has just kissed him for the first time.

”What I prefer,” the Cardassian says, with a hint of exasperation, ”is for you to be safe and happy without hurting yourself or being hurt by someone else. And if _that_ doesn't answer your question, then you must truly have lost all capacity for reasoning.”

Julian swallows and struggles to form the words he barely dares to speak.

”So … All this time … You – you knew what my feelings were, and yet, you –”

”Frankly, your supposed little infatuation with me was quite irrelevant. My only concern was to protect you.”

”My what?” Julian spits out before sucking in another rushed breath. ”No. Your only concern should have been to let me make my own damned choices!”

”And watch you plunge yourself into destruction, like you've proven so capable of by now?”

”Things might have been different.”

Garak goes still and turns to look out at the stars. He lets out a small sigh.

”Perhaps.”

 

There is a gentle silence in the room after that, as Garak watches Bajoran constellations and Julian watches Garak from the corner of his eye. The thoughts that have been magically suppressed ever since Garak kissed him rise slowly to the surface again and pulls him back into himself with harsh, familiar words. He has been still for too long.

 

He glances at the door, even though he knows that Garak will never allow him to leave for a walk. The pillow gets crushed and wrinkled between his fingers again, while his mind desperately reaches out for anything at all to take the edge off the chaos inside it. The polygons are broken – disintegrated in the explosion caused by Garak's relentess mouth upon his own. The only thing that is left is Garak himself – a calm anchor in the midst of all, looking at the stars with blue, blue eyes. Julian sucks in a breath and lifts his hand. He places it over Garak's, which is resting on the couch.

”I'm sorry I'm not nicer to look at,” he mumbles, not daring to move his eyes away from the sight of his narrow, brown hand on Garak's strong, grey one.

 

”My dear Julian.”

Garak's voice is soft as silk as his other hand comes up to cup Julian's chin and lift his face until Julian closes his eyes with burning cheeks, because he cannot look at Garak, and there is nowhere else to look.

 

Then Garak leans forward and kisses him again, and it is nothing like the first time. Garak leads and Julian follows, but the hand on his neck is resting ever so lightly against his skin, and the Cardassian's lips are so surprisingly soft. When he feels the tip of Garak's tongue against his lips, he opens them eagerly – perhaps a little too wide, because Garak draws back again and continues to kiss him even more gently for a while. Julian gradually lets himself melt against him, adapt to his rythm. He reaches out to put his own shaking hands on Garak's broad back. Then, in that brilliant moment when Garak's tongue finally enters his mouth and intertwines with his own, and all carefully measured movements turn into actions of raw instinct, his hands move upward and grasp the ridges of Garak's neck, and Garak's entire body shivers under his touch.

 

Julian squeezes, and Garak lets out a half-strangled sound against his mouth, something that could have been the prelude to a whimper if this was not Garak, because Garak does not … _Does he?_ Julian hesitates, but then desire and curiosity gets the better of him, and his hands give the broad ridges another squeeze.

” _Mhnm._ ”

”What?”

Garak slowly breaks the kiss and draws back to look at him, blinking hard.

”Clearly, Doctor,” he says hoarsely, and the unsteadiness in his voice is unmistakable, ”your Federation records on Cardassian anatomy neglected to mention a few details.”

”No, not in this case,” Julian mumbles quietly, ”but I've always found theoretical studies to be a poor substitute for the real experience.”

 

He does not realise what he has said until a moment later, when Garak is already chuckling with satisfaction as he puts his own hands over Julian's.

”In that case, I'm at your complete disposal.”

In a second, his entire body language goes from animated to serious.

”– _After_ you have agreed to go through with the treatment, of course.”

 

Julian withdraws his hands. The room suddenly feels colder again.

”So after all these incredible sentiments,” he says, ”you're still choosing the ugly way?”

Garak looks genuinly confused.

”Quite the opposite, I believe. The _ugly_ way would be to threaten you with convincing Captain Sisko to have you court-martialed.”

 

A groan escapes Julian's lips before he can help himself.

”You don't understand! Now – listen, I have one more thing to do, alright? I – I only need two more weeks. I need the exercise ban lifted, and then you won't have any more trouble with me, I promise. Please. Just give me a little more time, and you'll see for yourself.”

”Please don't even _try_ to convince me you believe that!” Garak replies sharply. ”I know a broken man when I see one, and you, my dear, are _shattered_. You're not running toward anything on that treadmill of yours – you're running away from yourself! That's what you've been doing all along, and _that's_ what you'll keep doing, until you take my advice and apply to the Seong Residential Treatment Center. And if you ponder the decision too long, you will find that my advices indeed _can_ be delivered in considerably less pleasant ways.”

”Why don't you just go ahead and torture me into submission then,” Julian screams, ”or whatever it is you're used to doing!”

 

Garak's eyes darken as he raises his voice.

”Because I have spent _years_ trying to protect you and keep you safe! Really, how many times do I have to tell you? I have listened to your babble and patted your shoulder like a good _lunch_ companion when what I really wanted was to drag you away from these disgusting lights and touch you as if the world wasn't ending. I tried to save your life that time in the holosuite, and you shot me! And you know what? I admired you for it. Because the Julian Bashir _I_ know has _integrity_ , and I have no interest whatsoever in further destroying what is left of that man, but I _will_ do it rather than watching you die like this. So please – _don't_ let it come to that.”

 

He snaps his mouth shut and turns again to look at the stars, as if Julian has vanished from the room.

 

Julian suprises himself by smiling – a brief, spasmodic twitch of lips – because here is Garak, the same Garak that he has known for years, but also a Garak so very different from anything he ever imagined, and this wondrous man still has not even asked him for an apology, nor been given one freely, and it is all infinitely more than Julian deserves.

”I just –”

His voice breaks, and he shakes his head and buries it in his hands.

”I needed to be in control. I thought if I could just … But I can't. I can't control anything! I'm just a mess, and the harder I tried, the worse everything got. People might have died!”

Despite his efforts, he feels himself begin to sob, his body shaking with each attempt to hold it back.

”I'm sorry, I don't mean to – Oh, I'm so sorry for everything! I'm so sorry, Garak … I'm sorry I'm not the man you admired anymore, I'm sorry I look like this. I'm horrible, I completely understand if you won't forgive me.”

 

_Please forgive me._

 

Garak puts his hand on Julian's shivering back and begins to rub soothingly up and down.

”There is nothing to forgive, my dearest.”

Julian draws his knees up to his chest, still covering his face as tears stream down his cheeks.

”It wasn't supposed to be like this. I just –”

”Shhh,” Garak whispers.

He is still touching Julian's back, and Julian barely dares to breathe.

 

The movements of Garak's hand becomes slower and less coordinated, and Julian can hear him open and close his mouth a few times before he speaks.

”I can't claim to fully understand what it is you're going through, my dearest, but it seems to me as if you have spent months doing not only what I did with my implant … but also trying, in a manner of speaking, to invent safety protocols for life.”

He sighs.

”And, apparently, so have I.”

Julian rubs his face on his sleeves and looks up from under his lashes.

”You?”

Garak lifts his other hand and touches his cheek.

”Doctor. Hm – I'm sorry. Julian.”

”It really doesn't matter. Go on, please.”

”I'm going to be very blunt with you now, Julian.”

 

Julian freezes, and Garak must have seen the look of fear and helplessness on his face, because he strokes his hair and gives him a sad, apologetic look.

”Oh, Julian. I have carefully and painstakingly tried to keep away from you ever since I truly began to care about you. You've always been oblivious to the dangers of being associated with me, and of being close to me … Until a few days ago, there was naturally little that could have pleased me more than your distrust. Then, Commander _Dax_ sent me a message regarding a certain meeting, but I'll leave it to you to thank her or blame her for it. Personally, I think it marks a point when I began to see things clearer.”

 

”You expressed a wish that I should let you make your own choices. I've decided to do that now. But this isn't the holosuite. I can promise you nothing about what the future will hold for us, and for that matter, neither can you. What I _will_ promise is that, when you have returned from your little vacation, I will no longer discourage you from exploring the possibilities of that future with me, if that's what you want. I do have my terms, but I will do my best to teach you the rules. If you really want to play this game, I promise that my better judgement won't stand in the way anymore.”

 

Julian finally puts his head on Garak's shoulder, taking in the novel discomfort of the ridge digging into his cheekbone.

”Thank you,” he whispers.

”You know you don't have to take me up on the offer,” Garak says. ”And even if you do, always remember, you may cancel our arrangement at any time. In fact, I forbid you to stay with me just because you think it would please me. Is that clear?”

His voice is stern, but there is nothing but kindness in it.

”Yes,” Julian confirmes quietly, and somewhere deep inside, something is telling him that this is important, but his usual inner voice wonders what could possibly ever stop him from doing everything to please Elim.

 

 _Elim_. Well, that is another thing that is novel.

 

”Good,” Garak says and pats his back a little awkwardly. ”I understand if a Cardassian older male won't turn out to be as fun as what you're used to.”

”You must be joking! You're the most dashing, intriguing, amazing …”

Julian realises that he is clutching Garak's shirt hard enough to damage the stitching. He releases it, and his overwhelmed mind switches abruptly to another train of thought.

”But if anyone asks, am I to understand that you blackmailed me into agreeing to the treatment?”

Garak puts his arms around him, and Julian can hear the smile in his voice.

”Ah, my dear, you're already showing promise.”

”How do I know you're not just ashamed of me?”

”My dear Julian, I could _never_ be ashamed of you. Trust me, I would parade you on the streets of Cardassia Prime the moment I thought it was safe for us. If you'd let me, of course.”

 

Julian winces and huddles closer to Garak's sturdy body.

”I'm terrified though. Of the treatment, of things changing, of scaring you away.”

”A natural reaction to the disabling of _any_ safety protocols. It applies to me as well.”

”I'm such an idiot.”

”Now, that is something I hope to never hear you say again.”

”I'm sorry.”

”But I most certainly don't want to hear any more apologies either.”

”I'm –”

Garak – _Elim_ – lifts his head and silences him with another kiss. It is nothing more than a soft brush of lips this time, but Julian aches with the tenderness of it. When they pull apart, he catches a glimpse of Elim's face and knows that he is lost in the same sensation.

 

And Elim still holds him just as if his body is tolerable – just as if he is not disgusted by it. It is as if fate has finally decided to give Julian one more chance, despite that he has done everything wrong ever since he beamed down to the cursed Teplan planet with a conviction that he could save the world.

 

But it is a chance that comes with a condition. The meaning of the treatment is only abstract to him, because, for all the faith he has in science, he cannot imagine how he will be able to look Elim in the eye again when he has reverted to the scrawny, shapeless, lazy man who failed to save all those lives.

 

If there is something that Julian has never ceased to excel in, however, it is abstract thinking. For a moment, he pushes aside the fact that he is worthless, broken, and scared out of his mind at the mere thought of surrendering himself. All of these things matter – he cannot pretend that they do not – but, just theoretically, the possibility exists that everything can become better again. Theoretically, he can still rebuild his life. And maybe, just maybe, this new life will become better than his old one. Perhaps the change has already begun. He meets Elim's blue eyes and decides.

 

It will become better.

 

*¨*¨*

**Author's Note:**

> The Seong-Austerlitz system for grouping and identifying eating disorders is my own invention. It replaces the EDNOS diagnosis (Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified), because it is my hopeful belief that, in the future, we will have made more progress in this field of medicine.


End file.
